Welcome to Shadow Valley
where the Dirty Angels MC rules. Get ready to get Down & Dirty because this
is Diesel’s story…

She calls him “The Beast.”

Diesel,
the MC’s Sergeant at Arms and enforcer, is tasked with not only keeping the club’s
property and its members safe, but also taking care of “business” when needed.
His motto, “live free, die free,” means he sees most women as nags and clingers
and he wants none of that. The last thing he needs is to have one sitting on
the back of his bike and trying to dictate his life.

Unlike
the other DAMC women, Jewel wants to be an ol’ lady. Being born and raised
within the club, her goal is to earn her place on back of a brother’s bike. But
not just anyone’s. No, she had to pick the biggest, most pig-headed and
quick-tempered of the bunch. The one she nicknamed “The Beast,” because that’s how
he acts both in and out of bed. She’s wanted Diesel for so long she’s not about
to give up the fight to become his. She’s bound and determined to win this
battle one way or another.

Diesel
fights his desire for Jewel until a rival MC threatens what he realizes is his,
and no one gets away with that. No one.

Note: This book can be read
as a standalone. It includes lots of steamy scenes, biker slang, cursing, some
violence and, of course, an HEA. If you like alpha males who like to take
charge, this book is for you.

He
rolled to the right and hit another soft, naked body. That one fell to the
floor with a yelp.

Fuck.

He
kept rolling and knocked the third one out of his bed, too.

Jesus fuckin’ Christ.

His
bed at church was way too small for four people. What the fuck had he been
thinking?

Fuck
him, he hadn’t.

A
rustle of bodies in the dark, groans, grumblings and typical female bitching rose
up.

“One
of you bitches hit the light.”

The
room stilled and got quiet.

“Now!”
he barked.

He
heard scrambling, cursing and squeals from stubbed toes. Then the bare bulb in
the broken light fixture over his bed blinded him.

A
few seconds later, he sat up in the middle of his mattress while his gaze
bounced from one of Dawg’s new girls to the next. Three in total stood at the
end of his bed blinking back at him like a bunch of brainless twats.

“Don’t
fuckin’ just stand there, get dressed an’ get gone.”

“D...”

“No
lip. Go.”

The
women quickly sorted through the piles of clothes and shoes on the floor, picking
up pieces and handing them to their rightful owner. Occasionally they would
sneak a peek at him and he’d growl back at them.

“Faster,”
he urged in a tone that encouraged no back talk.

Finally,
when they were at least partially dressed, he pushed himself out of bed with a
grunt, went to the door, opened it, and yelled, “Out!”

One
by one they filed past him, still zipping, pulling and wiggling parts into place.

“Call
me.”

“It
was fun.”

“Anytime.”

Fuck
that. He slammed the door shut.

He
fucked up royally by bringing them up to his room. He rarely did that. And he
never fell asleep with anyone in his bed, either. Ever.

They
got ideas if you did.

They
were always looking for a way to dig their claws into you and drag your ass
down. He’d never let that happen.

He
lumbered into his bathroom, scratching his balls. He took a piss, which luckily
didn’t burn, then checked for crabs.

He
was the first one of the brothers to fuck those bitches, that’s why he picked
them. He wouldn’t touch them again. Too risky.

He
left the small bathroom and stepped over his own clothes, which were strewn all
over the floor, to grab his cell phone from the nightstand. He pushed the power
button to see the time.

4:33
AM.

Fuck,
no wonder church sounded as quiet as a real church. The party was over.
Everyone was passed out, asleep, had died or just simply left.

He
picked up the box of condoms off the top of the scarred nightstand and peered
inside.

Empty.

He
glanced at the floor.

Damn.

He
needed to get one of the sweet butts up there to pick up all the used condoms
and discarded wrappers. She could do his laundry while she was at it. Because
he’d let that go a little too long. He had more dirty clothes on the floor than
he did clean shit in his dresser.

He
was proud of himself, though. At almost thirty-three years old, he could still
bang three women and last for hours. His endurance was legendary.

Yeah,
in his own mind. He grunted.

Even
so, he still had it. But he was getting too old for this shit.

About the Author:

JEANNE ST. JAMES is a USA Today bestselling erotic romance
author who loves an alpha male (or two). She was only thirteen when she started
writing. Her first paid published piece was an erotic story in Playgirl
magazine. Her first erotic romance novel, Banged Up, was published in 2009. She
is happily owned by farting French bulldogs. She writes M/F, M/M, and M/M/F
ménages. Want to read a sample of her work? Download a sampler book here: BookHip.com/MTQQKK